


Request

by winwinism



Series: Request [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Universe, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Time Skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 10:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22968622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winwinism/pseuds/winwinism
Summary: Kiyoomi asks if he can suck Atsumu off.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: Request [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1698271
Comments: 12
Kudos: 509





	Request

Kiyoomi wears his surgical mask into Atsumu’s apartment. He goes along with the sad mini tour Atsumu gives of the place without speaking, looking around with placid gray eyes that hold all the interest one might regard a specimen of roadkill. Atsumu starts getting nervous (no--he starts admitting to himself that he’s nervous) around the five minute mark, because there’s only so much shit he can say about his glorious two-bedroom bachelor pad. He’s glad his flatmate is out for the afternoon. She’d probably laugh her ass off. 

He becomes horribly aware of the multitude of volleyball posters up in this bedroom the moment Kiyoomi enters. He’s got Japan, Brazil, Italy, men and women, indoor and beach. An old Inarizaki fundraiser ad, the whole team’s signatures scrawled across it. Oh, for fuck’s sake. That does destroy his image of being a man moved on from high school a bit, does it. 

“Did you change your sheets?” Kiyoomi says at once, cutting Atsumu off mid-sentence. It’s almost a relief.

“Uhhhh. Within what time period are we talking?”

“Today.”

“Then...no.”

Kiyoomi makes a soft _humph_ and regards the bed with a slight furrow in his brow. Atsumu starts to feel self-conscious about his bedsheets for the first time in his life. They’re normal, kinda low thread count. Purple. 

“Unfortunate,” Kiyoomi says.

“Dude,” Atsumu says, “I can change ‘em right now if you want.” 

“Yes,” Kiyoomi says. “I do want.” 

Atsumu swallows. He commands himself not to overthink it and fetches a new set from his closet, Kiyoomi steps out while Atsumu changes his sheets. 

“Omi-kun,” Atsumu calls, “I didn’t know you cared so much about my sleep hygiene.” 

“I don’t,” Kiyoomi informs him coolly, and Atsumu’s heart starts pounding a little harder.

Kiyoomi returns to the walls full of pro volleyball hunks once Atsumu is done, crinkles his eyes and bats at some invisible cloud of dust. 

“Happy?” 

“No,” Kiyoomi says. “Do you have a latex allergy?”

Atsumu blinks. “Woah, what’s with the twenty-one questions?”

“It was two questions.” 

“Expression, Omi-kun. And no, I don’t.” Atsumu crosses his arms, as if that will somehow obscure his rapidly declining cool. 

“Good. I have a third question, now.”

“Thanks for the heads up.”

Kiyoomi stares at him, unblinking, for a treacherous moment, then glances out the bedroom window. It’s a nice view. Got some spindly roadside trees, a recycling facility across the street. “I’ve come to a decision. I would like to suck you off. So. Are you amenable?”

Atsumu uncrosses his arms. Or rather, his arms uncross themselves. “Uh,” he says dully. 

Kiyoomi looks at him sideways, like he can’t quite face him after saying _that_. His eyes are narrowed, subtly pained. “I brought my own condoms.”

“Naturally,” the shell that was once Atsumu says. “As one does.”

“Don’t take too long thinking about it. I haven’t got all day.” 

“Fuck yeah, I’m amenable,” Atsumu rushes out in a split-second of fear that Kiyoomi might reconsider. His heart is definitely beating faster than standing around in his apartment should require. “Omi-kun, are you for--you’re serious--“

“In exchange,” Kiyoomi says, reaching behind his ears to peel off the mask, “stop calling me that.” 

“Omi-kun?”

“And variations thereof.” Kiyoomi’s mouth slips into view, and Atsumu’s eyes drop to it like magnets to a pole. His mouth is so pretty--god knows how many times Atsumu has stared at it, the delicate curve, the deep indent of his philtrum. Kiyoomi tilts his head in consideration, and says, “Sakusa-san is fine.” 

Atsumu barks out a laugh. “I’m not calling you that.” 

Kiyoomi arches a brow, the one with the sexy forehead moles just above it. He tucks the surgical mask into the bag that still hangs from his shoulder, then starts fishing around for something else. A condom? Atsumu feels like his brain might split. “Kiyoomi, then,” he says. 

He says his own name softly, almost shyly. His eyes flick up to meet Atsumu’s. 

“K-Kiyoomi,” Atsumu says, stuttering stupidly over the realization that it might’ve been the first time he’s addressed him that way, or spoken the name at all. “How d’you wanna do this?”

Kiyoomi lets the bag drop to the floor. He takes a step forward, letting the afternoon light swallow his tall, gray-clad visage. He’s gorgeous even in sweats, loose post-practice clothes that somehow bring out the color of his eyes, unkempt, ink-black hair just swept out of them in thick waves. Beautiful, cold. Untouchable. 

But Atsumu can touch him, now. Even if it’s only under specific circumstances and it feels like a prank every time. That’s something. 

Kiyoomi opens his mouth, then closes it. Bites down on his lower lip. It dawns on Atsumu in stages. 

Kiyoomi isn’t good at this. He knows what he wants, but he doesn’t know how to get there. Not like this, when he went half an hour out of his way to stop at Atsumu’s place so they could, quote, _evaluate play strategies_. He knows heat of the moment, acting on adrenaline, want superseding any reservations and psychological blocks he might have about bumping another person’s junk. Hell, Atsumu takes it as a compliment that Kiyoomi has ever wanted him that badly--that he’d grit his teeth and pin Atsumu against a grimy bathroom stall, take his naked cock out in hand and stroke him for all of the thirty seconds to a minute that it took. 

(Atsumu had a lot of fantasies leading up to that moment. It was a bit much.) 

Now, though, staring down the muzzle of Kiyoomi asking to suck his dick, Atsumu isn’t sure he’ll be any better. 

He tries to swallow away his dry mouth and fails. To hell with it. “Alright. C’mere.”

Atsumu flops down on his freshly-changed bed, pats the space next to him. Bold, sexually-provocative Kiyoomi sinks down likewise and keeps his hands to himself. 

“Your hand,” Kiyoomi says before Atsumu can initiate anything. 

Confused, Atsumu holds out a palm, and Kiyoomi drops a foil-wrapped condom into it. Nice brand name. Standard size. Atsumu appreciates the sentiment. 

“I have extras,” Kiyoomi says. “In case it’s damaged.”

Atsumu curls his fingers around the foil. He huffs, which turns into a chuckle. “Om--I mean, _Kiyoomi_ -kun, you sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

“Hmm,” Kiyoomi says. 

Atsumu makes the first hesitant touch, resting a hand on Kiyoomi’s clothed shoulder and letting it fall down the line of his arm. Kiyoomi neither stiffens nor leans into it.“So, you been thinking about sucking my dick a lot?”

Kiyoomi does flinch away at that. “Shut up.” 

“What? It’s an honest question.”

“It’s irrelevant.” 

“Is it, now?” A smirk starts to slide across Atsumu’s face. He leans into Kiyoomi’s side, letting his breath ghost over the skin of his neck. “I’m not a machine, you know. You’re gonna have to help me get it up somehow.” A baldfaced lie. Kiyoomi could probably stare at him with disgust and Atsumu’s monkey brain would find it arousing enough. 

“You didn’t need any help last time.” 

Atsumu‘s smirk cracks. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Circumstances were different.” As it turned out, getting drunk with the Black Jackals and ogling Kiyoomi all night worked well enough as foreplay. “No need to be shy, Kiyoomi-kun.”

Gray eyes slide over to his. He wets his lips, and Atsumu helplessly traces the movement. “I’m not shy.”

Their faces inches apart, Atsumu darts his eyes between Kiyoomi’s eyes and mouth. Fuck, he’s so pretty. Absurdly pretty. Big eyes, a perfect curve to his nose. And that mouth. Atsumu wants to kiss him. The urge seizes him and drives all other thoughts from his head--what were they talking about, anyway?--and he lurches forward. 

Kiyoomi turns his cheek. Atsumu stops himself just in time. 

Right. No kissing. 

Atsumu huffs and tries to play it off, scrubbing the back of his neck. He reaches tentatively for Kiyoomi’s, then, feels him jolt at the brush of Atsumu’s fingers over sensitive skin. He doesn’t object to the contact, so that’s a start. Atsumu leans in again, ducking his head to nose just under Kiyoomi’s ear, where his hair starts to fall in thick waves. He breathes in--wonders why Kiyoomi has to smell good, as if everything else isn’t enough--and presses a soft, dry kiss to Kiyoomi’s neck. 

Kiyoomi won’t kiss his mouth. But he’ll permit it elsewhere, as long as Atsumu’s spit doesn’t enter any major bodily orifices. Atsumu will take what he can get. 

Kiyoomi stiffens. Atsumu feels him swallow, and he moves to kiss him again, over his pulse point. 

“You have a really sexy neck,” Atsumu says, which is true. He’d be hard-pressed to name a part of him that wasn’t. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Kiyoomi shrugs him off, then, rolling his eyes. Atsumu expects a retort, but he plucks at the front of Atsumu’s sweatshirt instead, commanding without inflection, “Take this off.” 

“Okay, okay.” Kiyoomi’s hand drops, and Atsumu pulls the item over his head, tossing it aside somewhere behind him. “Any other requests?”

“Sit back,” Kiyoomi says, nodding towards the headboard. Well, then. Atsumu complies, scooting back to prop himself up against the pillows, folding his limbs in front of him. He watched as Kiyoomi unzips his own jacket and hangs it from the chair by the window, though not without wrinkling his nose at all the dusty old volleyball magazines and sports nutrition books stacked on its seat--then turns his impassive gaze on Atsumu. He’s as good as pinned in place. Kiyoomi crawls back on the bed without a hint of self-consciousness, settling on his knees just between Atsumu’s. 

“My terms,” Kiyoomi says. “No touching.” 

Atsumu purses his lips, then nods sharply, curling his hands in the bedspread underneath him. “Fair enough.” If it means he gets his dick sucked.

Kiyoomi nudges one of Atsumu’s bent knees apart, just a little, and looms over him to plant an outstretched hand beside Atsumu’s shoulder. Locks of hair fall around Kiyoomi’s face as he stares down, searching, and Atsumu is starting to feel very uncomfortable indeed when Kiyoomi reaches up and grasps him by the jaw. 

He thumbs along Atsumu’s cheek, brushes the corner of his lips. Atsumu imagines his fingers are kisses. If only Kiyoomi would kiss him like this--exploratory, teasing. The thought aches in him. Who knew Atsumu was such a romantic? Then Kiyoomi presses Atsumu’s head sideways, squashing him into the headboard with a thumb digging into the cheek.

“Hey,” Atsumu protests. He moves as if to grasp Kiyoomi’s forearm, but Kiyoomi draws away in an instant.

Kiyoomi frowns, that little crease forming between his brows. He sits back on his heels and turns his attention to the hem of Atsumu’s shirt, sliding his fingers under the white cotton and rucking it up his abdomen without preamble. His hands are icy; Atsumu’s skin jumps under his touch. 

“Have you ever done this before?” Atsumu blurts. Kiyoomi pauses his exploration of Atsumu’s abdomen. Atsumu doubts he has, so Kiyoomi’s response makes his eyebrows jump up. 

“Yes,” he says, somewhat defensively. 

“Really?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi repeats. He trails his fingers up the grooves of Atsumu’s abdomen, pushing his cotton t-shirt past his nipples. Atsumu tries very hard not to jerk under the touch--or worse, giggle--and curses his ticklishness. 

“Huh,” Atsumu says. He probably shouldn’t be so shocked. It’s not as if Kiyoomi would have a hard time of finding sexual partners, if he was even fractionally aware of his looks. “Kinda surprised.” 

Kiyoomi blinks up at him, before returning his attention to Atsumu’s pecs. Hell if that doesn’t go straight to his ego. “Does it matter?” 

To Atsumu’s troublesome id? Maybe? “Nah. Better if you’re experienced, though.” One of Kiyoomi’s thumbs start to circle his left nipple, and Atsumu’s fist tightens in a mix of fear and anticipation. “Not really into getting my dick bit off.” 

Kiyoomi flicks his nipple. Atsumu clenches his teeth with a stifled hiss. “Then I won’t.” He circles his left nipple, too, almost lovingly, and observes the growing heat in Atsumu’s face. “You have sensitive nipples.” 

“Well-observed,” Atsumu grits out. Kiyoomi’s hands are calloused, like any volleyball player’s, and hell on his nerve endings. He wonders how they’d feel around his cock. No--he knows. He just wants to feel it again. 

Seeming to make a decision, Kiyoomi plucks the hem of Atsumu’s shirt and holds it up to Atsumu’s face, level with his mouth. “Bite this.”

Atsumu laughs. “Seriously?” 

Kiyoomi’s gaze is nothing but. “You talk too much.”

“I do _not_ \--” Atsumu sputters with offense, reminded instantly of why they’ll never skip off into the sunset together (as much as his dick thinks it would be splendid). “What about communication, huh? ‘S important!” 

“If you have something important to say,” Kiyoomi says, unruffled, “then tell me now.”

Atsumu gapes. Kiyoomi, plainly unsurprised by his lack of response, starts to offer him the shirt--so Atsumu spits out the first thing that comes to mind. “Your eyes are like a thunderstorm.” 

Said thunderstorm-y eyes stare at him. Usually Atsumu feels like they can drill into the depths of his soul, but now they just look unamused. “I fail to see how that was important.”

“Sets the mood, Omi-Kiyoomi-kun.” He’ll punch himself in the face later. “Whatever. Feel free to gag me, sir.” 

Kiyoomi’s eyes narrow a little, but not unkindly. “Hmm. Maybe another time.” Now that--Little Atsumu hopes that’s a promise. 

His fingers press the fabric into his mouth. Atsumu bites down, and wow, cotton does not taste good. Then Kiyoomi’s slumping over him further, bracing his hand above Atsumu’s shoulder and bending to his chest before he can register what he’s doing. 

A kiss, right over his stiff, slightly-reddened nipple. Closed-mouthed, at first, before Kiyoomi emboldens and opens up to swirl his tongue across his areola, bumping over his peak. 

Atsumu’s brain goes on temporary hiatus. That’s a first. He’s certainly felt up Kiyoomi a bit with his tongue, but Kiyoomi’s never returned the favor. 

Maybe it’s that Atsumu showered at the Black Jackals’ gym less than an hour ago, his soap usage and exfoliation techniques and bare naked ass freely available for Kiyoomi’s inspection. He’s so used to locker room showers that any feelings of intimacy have long since faded, but now, the thought makes him blush. He hopes Kiyoomi liked what he saw, if he was looking. 

Kiyoomi moves to bend over his right nipple, soft kisses barely audible as Atsumu struggles not to arch embarrassingly into them. His lips dart downwards, teeth grazing at the underside of his pec. Atsumu lets out a sharp exhale through his teeth and already saliva-wet fabric. 

As if he _does_ have all day, Kiyoomi starts to make his way downwards, pressing butterfly kisses over his ribs and stomach, even--absurdly, like he’s been bodyswapped by someone ten times less uptight--dragging his tongue across the lines of his abdomen, hand pressing insistently into his side as if to hold him aloft. Atsumu doesn’t let his t-shirt fall. He wonders, somewhere in the back of his mind, if this is for him, or if Kiyoomi is simply indulging himself in Atsumu’s form. Surely the former? He doesn’t know which option makes him crazier, to be honest. But forget that--the fact that Kiyoomi is doing this at all--

Kiyoomi’s eyes flick up, eyeing him through dark lashes as if he’d read his mind. He sits before the V of Atsumu’s hips, forearm propped against Atsumu’s still-clothed thigh; then, without warning, grinds the heel of his other hand against Atsumu’s crotch. It’s like all the little shivers induced by Kiyoomi’s mouth rush over his body at once. Atsumu’s mouth drops open. The shirt falls. 

Kiyoomi hums. He rises a little, offers the bunched-up hem of his shirt back to Atsumu. He bites down without protest, already feeling tight and raw. His hard-on sits embarrassingly obvious between them, not quite at full mast but still tenting his sweats. Kiyoomi tugs at the waistband, to which Atsumu has no objection. 

He groans when it’s pulled over the curve of his dick, exposing his boxers and the little wet patch at his head to the air. Kiyoomi stares, enough to make a guy blush--and Atsumu swears it’s hunger in his gaze when Kiyoomi grinds his palm down again, pressing along the head of his cock until Atsumu’s groaning through his teeth. Kyoomi’s fingers curl, and he strokes him inelegantly through the fabric, just enough to tease. 

“Good,” Kiyoomi says. Then he sits back on his knees and plucks the waistband of Atsumu’s boxers from his hips, pulling it back so that Atsumu’s flushed dick springs free. It curves towards his abs, wetness already glistening at the tip. Atsumu hisses. “Condom.”

“Hnn?” Atsumu understands after a bleak moment, grabs for the condom he’d tossed aside. He offers it to Kiyoomi, but he curls his lip. 

“You put it on.”

After slobbering all over his chest, he still objects to this? Well, far be it from Atsumu to deny him now. He tears open the condom and fists it onto his dick with less elegance than he’s proud of, eyes fluttering shut at the friction of his own hand. But his hand is nothing, not compared top--his eyes dart up to Kiyoomi’s lips. He licks them, as if sensing Atsumu’s attention, but Kiyoomi’s eyes are on his cock, as Atsumu fits the latex over him. 

Kiyoomi flops down on his forearms, eyes fixed, and knocks Atsumu’s hands away. Atsumu thinks belatedly that he should shake off his sweats, maybe his boxers too; but Kiyoomi doesn’t give him a chance. He curls his hand around Atsumu’s shaft and dips his head, kissing the base of his cock below his fist. Kiyoomi breathes in; his eyes flick up. Atsumu can’t breathe. 

“Also,” Kiyoomi says. “Move your hips and we’re done.” 

Atsumu gives him a thumbs up. 

Kiyoomi returns his attention to Atsumu’s dick, stroking his hand up and down curiously. He ducks down again and kisses along him, drags his tongue over the purple vein thumping up the side of his cock. Atsumu shivers, anticipation crawling uncomfortably over his skin. Fuck, it really crept up on him, how much he wants. 

Kiyoomi is a man engrossed, jerking him off leisurely, palm slowly slicking up with his own saliva. He scrunches his nose minutely, but puts any apparent discomfort aside. His eyes flutter shut. It shouldn’t be fair, that he’s got these stormy long-lashed cow eyes, too, but nothing about this is. 

He takes the tip into his mouth with his fist fixed around the base, swirls his tongue. Atsumu’s abs tense. Not like it’s the first time he’s gotten a blowjob, for sure. Not even like it’s the first time he’s been offered one--but it’s the first time someone’s sucked up off through a condom, which, well, it doesn’t help. 

But this is Sakusa Kiyoomi. Dark locks fall around his face as warmth, the suggestion of wetness, suction the head of Atsumu’s cock. Kiyoomi fists his shaft leisurely, holding him fast. 

“Fuck,” Atsumu says. He forgets the shirt in his mouth, and it falls to his stomach. Kiyoomi doesn’t acknowledge it, hollowing his cheeks to take Atsumu deeper. 

His lips redden quickly, accumulating spit and catching the light. Atsumu can’t look away. He fists his hands in the sheets, staring at Kiyoomi’s bare neck and thinking about sinking his hands into his hair, the close-shaven part at the back. The oil in his hands would probably interfere with Kiyoomi’s 10-step hair routine--which, if such a thing exists, he definitely has--so Atsumu lets his neatly-trimmed fingernails bite into the meat of his palm. He holds back. 

Kiyoomi finds his rhythm steadily. He swirls his tongue, bobs, and unravels the fabric of Atsumu’s existence as unhurried as he’s done everything else. It’s by no means the most skillful blowjob Atsumu has had, nor the most enthusiastic; but Kiyoomi is methodical, and also Kiyoomi. Who is, as it happens, kind of Atsumu’s type. Volleyball crazy, eccentric. The kind of guy who doesn’t give a fuck about his reputation, who knows what he wants. Powerful. 

And he’s prostrate in Atsumu’s lap, knees kicked up behind him like he’s _enjoying_ it, with a mouthful of dick--and, well. Tell teenage Atsumu that--the one who got his ass kicked by a top-seeded team in his first Spring High and _loved_ it, who was so starstruck and furious at the opponent’s rookie spiker that he came to envy another setter for the first time in his life--and he’d probably pass the fuck out. 

This Atsumu, though, swears and says his name like a prayer. “Kiyoomi,” he croons, “so good. So sexy like this.” 

Kiyoomi’s eyes lift, briefly. He doesn’t pull off, though, humming around his dick in some bland, wordless statement that ripples through Atsumu’s body like a stone set to the surface of a pond. He shudders. He doesn’t move his hips, however tempting the warmth of Kiyoomi’s mouth, the tightness imminent at Kiyoomi’s throat. Kiyoomi takes him about halfway (Atsumu’s average, whatever, it’s value neutral) and works the rest with a careful, calloused hand, pressing down on his thigh with the other. It’s enough. It’s five hundred dirty fantasies coming true at once, ones he’s had longer than his dignity should’ve allowed. Same difference.

Then Kiyoomi sucks a breath in through his nose, hollows his cheeks, and plunges down. Atsumu lets out an embarrassing noise and brings his fist before him as if to bite down, then thinks better of it. The head of his cock slips past the ring of Kiyoomi’s throat, tight walls suctioning him on all sides. Atsumu curses, swears internally that he hadn’t moved, but Kiyoomi shows no sign of distress. He breathes calmly and takes him in, lets his hand fall away as he draws Atsumu inside the pale expanse of his throat until his nose tickles the (blessedly) trimmed patch of hair at the base.

“Fucking shit.” He doesn’t even gag. Kiyoomi breathes steadily through his nose, blinks up at Atsumu. Everything is measured, and so, so careful, as if he’s cradling Atsumu’s soul in his mouth. He may as well be. Something sparkles in the corner of Kiyoomi’s eye. It leaks out. A tear. “Fuck, look at you. Just taking it.” It’s not that impressive. Atsumu is average. He’s been deepthroated before. Kiyoomi’s eyes are damp, stormy weather fixed on him alone. “Such a good cocksucker.” 

Kiyoomi’s cheeks hollow. He puts real muscle into it, drags it out of him; Atsumu doesn’t stand a chance. His awareness narrows to every point of contact between them, the untempered heat of Kiyoomi’s throat. It floods him; his balls pull tight, nipples stiffening beneath fabric. 

He groans as his hips buck, but Kiyoomi has the wisdom to pull off before his nose suffers a terrible fate. Kiyoomi sucks him through it as his dick pulses and he floods the condom. He crumples in its wake. Still, Kiyoomi refuses to pull off. 

“Omi--” His vision alternates between flashes of bedroom and white, and he blinks it away. “Kiyoomi.” 

Kiyoomi gives him a look that’s almost reluctant, and he pulls off with a wet _pop_. Atsumu gasps. Kiyoomi folds his legs under him and looks over him curiously. 

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Fuck, man!” Atsumu clutches his chest, curling over himself as he grasps for breath. “Give me a fucking second.” 

When he looks up, he takes in Kiyoomi’s slick, swollen lips, his red cheeks. That’s not just exertion. He looks down--there. That’s definitely a bulge. Kiyoomi is definitely turned on. _Fuck_. 

Atsumu’s dick jumps, spilling more cum into the condom. He groans into his fist. “Um. What do you think, genius?”

Kiyoomi is silent. “I think,” he says slowly, “you should let me cum on you.” 

“What?”

“On your abs, specifically.” Kiyoomi ignores Atsumu’s weak sound of protest when he pushes Atsumu’s legs apart, crawling atop them to straddle him, ignoring Atsumu’s still-oversensitive dick and disgusting used condom. “Are you amenable?”

“Woah, woah, woah.” He doesn’t push Kiyoomi off, though. The weight of him feels nice, like some kind of security blanket atop his afterglow. Maybe he’ll ask him to cuddle. He grabs for Kiyoomi’s thighs instead, presuming the no-touching rule has expired, digging his hands into the muscle with pleasure. “What’s this about?” He puts on a smirk, adds, “You got a thing for my hot bod?”

Kiyoomi’s already palming himself. He pushes the fabric of Atsumu’s t-shirt up again, eyes growing hazy. “Narcissism is unattractive. You should reconsider it.”

“What’s in it for me?” The idea of Kiyoomi cumming on him isn’t bad, to be honest. Kind of the opposite of bad. Kind of things-he-lies-awake-thinking-about-until-he-has-to-jerk-off not bad. 

“I might,” Kiyoomi huffs, “do this again.” 

“Fuck, really?” 

Kiyoomi nods. He gives up and takes out his dick, starts jerking off while bouncing on his heels ever-so-slightly. He’s already wet, so he slicks up easy. Atsumu thinks about Kiyoomi bouncing on his lap for a different reason. “I thought once would be enough. But,” he admits, “I still want to do it.” 

“You thought,” Atsumu scoffs, projecting the idea of an Atsumu who actually believes his dick possesses qualities Sakusa Kiyoomi would want to examine multiple times. 

“It was already inconvenient.” His eyes narrow, brow furrowing in a way that orgasm-haze Atsumu can only describe as _cute_. “You’ll just have to make yourself available.” 

“Fine with me,” Atsumu says brightly. “You have my schedule.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi cums all over his abs. It’s super awesome. 

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tweeter](https://twitter.com/winwinism)


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